


Sloth

by NervousAsexual



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Demons, Haunting, Lyrium Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-08 17:23:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12258768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousAsexual/pseuds/NervousAsexual
Summary: Cullen is troubled by dreams of the Inquisitor and memories of the Warden.





	Sloth

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2017 Spook Me Ficathon

When Cullen awoke just as tired as when he lay down, he blamed it on the lyrium... or the lack thereof. His head throbbed and he felt cold all over. That was the fault of the lyrium too. He snapped at Josephine and fought with Cassandra over what to do with a handful of Venatori who turned up at the gate with pretty promises and--they said--cult secrets.

That was only partially lyrium.

He was of the opinion they should be executed posthaste, but Cassandra was too full of ideas about espionage and double-dealings. Leliana's work, no doubt. She always leaned more toward the acquisition of new agents instead of the termination of threats these days. And that, in turn, was the Inquisitor's doing.

Naturally. Most things were the Inquisitor's doing. It had been her hand that stayed Alexius' execution, shielded Cole from the worst of the Chantry's ire, and, of course, it was Cadash who had encouraged Cullen to give up the lyrium for good this time.

He watched her from the tower he'd claimed as his own. She didn't often come up to see him, which was a blessing--things between them had been stiff and formal for a long while. But he saw her out and about from time to time. Picking up more potions here, checking on her horse there, every once in a while running around after Sera or Cole or Josephine. She had a way with people. Everyone liked her, even Vivienne, with whom she rarely agreed. It reminded him of someone else.

He climbed up to bed at the end of the day, having seen no one but a few of his soldiers, and lay awake under the covers.

What were the odds? he wondered. What were the chances that the Hero of Fereldan and the Herald of Andraste would both be dark-skinned dwarves with dual daggers and a desperate need to please?

Although Brosca at least knew how to be silent at times.

He closed his eyes but sleep didn't come. Despite the weather he was sweating under the covers. He tried to push them off, but found he couldn't move. When he opened his eyes slightly he saw Cadash, sitting cross-legged upon his chest.

It was hard to breathe, he thought, and fell heavily into sleep.

* * *

By the time morning came he felt worse than he had before sleeping. His chest felt sore, but, he observed off-handedly, there was no sign of any intruder.

What an odd dream he'd had.

He dressed himself and carefully made his way down the ladder. His head was pounding again, but his desk was piled high with scout reports, unopened letters from people he'd angered, and tactical maps of Crestwood. There was still much to be done.

He forced himself to at least stand beside the desk and try to read one of the letters.

Commander... soldiers... successful attacks...

Idly he rubbed at his temple. The familiar bursts of electricity were back, inside his head and pressing outward on all sides. What was this letter regarding? He started over again. Soldiers... successful attacks...

Fantastic. Cassandra would have to remove him from service far sooner than he'd anticipated.

With not a little reluctance he set aside the letter and chose another, this one from a requisition officer in the Fallow Mire. This one was easier to handle--it was essentially an inventory of the latest shipment. So much blue vitriol, a certain amount of iron ore, some fade-touched serpentstone a recruit had stumbled over on the way to the latrine one night.

Looks fine, he thought, though in truth he knew nothing of smithing and the numbers tended to swim together even on good days.

"Cullen?"

He started at the sound of another voice. His tower was growing dark; the sun was setting spectacularly outside. At some point he must have sat down at the desk. He could just make out Josephine standing in the doorway. How long had she been there?

 "Yes." He straightened up and wiped at his face. "Josephine. What can I do for you? Come in, come in."

She didn't come any closer. "Cassandra asked me to confirm you'd had a report from Scout Harding on the Storm Coast templar camp. The Inquisitor is eager to investigate reports of red lyrium in the area."

"I..." He ran his eyes over the still untouched correspondence and picked up the letter he'd had such trouble with. There at the bottom was Harding's signature. "Yes, I have it right here. The attacks were successful and she thinks the time is right for an attack on their base." The letter was short, no more than a few lines. Why had he had such a hard time focusing on it?

"That is good to know." Josephine made a note on that ever-present tablet of hers. "Thank you, Cullen. Have a good night."

"Hmm? Yes, yes... good night," he said, but she was already gone. He went to the window and looked out. Skyhold was already closing up for the night. There was a bit of a chill to the air. He glanced back at all of the work he'd left undone. What a waste of a day.

His eyes fell upon the lyrium box, still on the corner of his desk. Was it too late to give up this charade of going clean?

He didn't want to think about the answer to that question.

He climbed the ladder and crawled back into bed. On a better day he might have stayed up longer, burned a few candles down to stubs in an attempt to get a little more accomplished, but not today. He put his aching head against the mattress and almost immediately drifted off.

This time he felt the pressure on his chest. He opened his eyes to find Cadash leaning over him, her arms braced against his chest.

"That hurts," he started to say, but she gave him an incredibly wide smile, a smile so unnerving he fell silent.

"I appreciate your doing this," she said.

"Doing...?"

"After all your dealings with mages." Cadash nodded toward the window. "After all the damage they've done and all the things they've done to you, it's very noble of you to stay with the Inquisition even after we've allied with rebel mages."

He looked toward the window, but the sky outside was black as death. The only light came from inside, the walls flickering an unnerving purple.

"Especially so, since I did the opposite of what you asked."

"We're all part of the same Inquisition..."

"The same what now?"

Her weight on his chest grew heavier and he looked back from the window. It wasn't Cadash lying over him, he realized with a start. It was Brosca. "Warden, I... what are you doing here?"

"That's what I asked you, Templar."

He reached for... for what?

"You don't fear abominations as much as you did."

Part of the Chant of Light drifted through his head. "Whatsoever passes through the fire is not lost, but made eternal. As air can never be broken nor crushed, the tempered soul is everlasting."

"I remember that verse. Pass through fire alone to be forged anew."

His neck ached from holding up his head, and he sank back against the mattress. His eyes closed again.

"Enjoy the fire, Knight-Captain," the dwarf whispered, and he slept.

* * *

In the morning it was worse.

He dressed slowly and had to work up the strength to climb down from his loft. He paused beside his desk, seeing but not seeing the letters, and continued to the window. Below the merchants were at work, and the healers in their little camp. The Inquisitor was walking with Solas. They glanced up and saw him, and the Inquisitor waved.

Cullen turned away and got to his knees beside the desk. He rested his head against the battered wood and quietly mumbled, "These truths the Maker has revealed to me: as there is but one world, one life, one... one death..."

Someone entered behind him.

"There is but one god, and He is our Maker. They are sinners, who have given their love to false gods."

"Well said, Knight-Captain." He didn't recognize the voice. When he looked back he saw it was a human in an officer's uniform, but still he didn't recognize the face. In his hand was a packet of papers.

"What is it?" he asked, climbing back to his feet.

"Word from agents in the Emerald Graves. There've been sightings of red templars down the Chateau d'Onterre."

"Great news." He took the papers and flipped through--none of the words caught his eye. "Compromised templars in an area known for possessions and abominations."

"What're your orders, ser?"

He shuffled from one end of the desk to the other,still gazing down at the words that meant nothing. "Send a small force to re-secure the chateau. No, wait." He stopped. "What has Leliana to say on this?"

The officer frowned. "I couldn't say."

"It may be best for her agents to scout through. In the area, you say? If they've not retaken the chateau it won't be necessary to send my men." He was pacing again. "I don't recall having a forces near there. Surely Leliana's people can move faster."

"Ser..."

"Hmm?" He looked up and found himself again at the ladder to the loft, one hand upon the rungs.

"Are you... feeling alright?"

"Fine," he said. In truth he was a bit light-headed and his chest felt tight, but he also couldn't recall the last time he'd eaten something. Come to think of it, he was a bit wobbly on his feet.

"My apologies." The officer took a few steps back toward the door. "I will consult with the Spymaster right away and update you further."

"Do that," he said, trying not to appear off-balance. "Thank you."

 

He awoke again in his own bed, still fully dressed, unsure how or when he'd gotten there. All around him was the distinctly purple glow, and on his chest--crouching this time, hunched over him--was Cadash.

"Stop," he tried to say, but his breath would not come. Her weight was too much. He tried to push her away but couldn't.

"Cullen," she said, and her mouth split into a smile that stretched from one side of her head to the other, gleaming with jagged, razor-sharp teeth. Her fingers bit into his chest. The blood welled beneath them. "Don't you ever miss the Circle?"

He opened his mouth to struggle with a breath, and once more he slept.

 

It was Leliana who came to the loft and found him.

"You haven't been at war table meetings for some time," she said from the ladder. "Cullen, your soldiers need a leader."

He touched a hand to his chest. Where the demon's fingers had been was damp with blood. "I need to speak with the Knight-Enchanter."

Leliana said nothing.

"Please." He was begging and he hated himself for it. "I need her help with... with a spirit."

For a moment there was more silence, but at last she sighed irritably and he heard her descend the ladder.

Good, he managed to think, before he went under again.

 

"My dear, you look quite terrible."

He managed to open his eyes unto Vivienne. She sat herself down beside him on the bed and looked at him with what might have been amusement.

"There's a demon," he said, as clearly as he could. "Or at least I think it's a demon. I'm not sure. It's been here... every night, for..."

"Oh, my," Vivienne said. "We simply can't have that." She leaned in closer to inspect the bloodstain on his chest. "A demon, you say?"

"I thought it was a dream at first. But it's been doing things to me."

"Is that so?"

"I need your help."

"You certainly do."

He sighed. "I don't know if it will help to go back on the lyrium."

"Hmm."

"Thought it was... Inquisitor... Cadash." It was getting harder to breathe again. "At first. Looked like her. Or like Brosca. I... I don't know."

"What did it say to you?"

"What? I don't know. Does it matter?"

She smiled at him.

"Something about the Circle. My chest..."

"Poor boy," she said, and smiled a little too wide.

His head was pounding again. His chest was too tight again.

"You aren't Vivienne," he said.

"No."

"So... who...?"

She kept smiling but it wasn't Vivienne's smile. It was familiar but it wasn't hers.

"Uldred?"

And Uldred smiled again. "Got it in one."

He rolled as hard as he could for the edge of the bed.

"Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him," he whispered. His sword. He needed his sword. "Foul and corrupt... corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it..."

Something caught his leg and he fell hard to the ground.

"Where is it you think you are going?"

He tried to stand but the pain in his chest drove him back down onto one knee.

"I'm not afraid of you," he gasped. "Uldred has been dead for ten years."

Uldred--the demon--just laughed. The sound was sharp and uneven and made him sick to his stomach.

"I will never..." He felt around on the floor but instead of his sword, instead of the ladder, instead of anything he felt a cold, stiff body. "I'll never be your prisoner again, demon."

The laugh abruptly stopped and with a sinking feeling inside he thought he recognized the body, curled on its side in Templar armor.

"You stupid, stupid boy," the demon said softly. "You never left."

He put a hand out and touched the purple barrier. He could barely raise his head enough to see more visions--a dwarf with dark skin, a familiar mage with white hair. He let his head fall back to his chest.

"Poor boy," the mage said. "What have they done to you?"

And Cullen wept, as though he would never stop.


End file.
